John Always Insisted
by Shirleylocked
Summary: Sherlock is sick, very sick, and of course John is there to take care of him... But when John leaves the house to go to the store and doesn't come back not even feeling like death could keep Sherlock confined to his bed. Finding John bleeding in an alleyway wasn't what Sherlock had in mind and he most certainly didn't want to watch John die. Johnlock


**Yes... I know I'm supposed to be working on my Doctor Who fic...but I was suddenly very distracted by a very lovable Martin and the unearthly atractive Benedict ...that combinde with a nightmare and what do you get? Inspiration for a oneshot story with my two favorite characters of all time.**

**I know...awesome right?**

**Happy reading! :D**

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John Always Insisted

John gently pressed the back of his hand to Sherlock's forehead, feeling the flaming hot temperature against his skin. He frowned and gently pulled Sherlock closer, kissing his forehead lovingly. Sherlock's eyelids flickered open slowly. "You feeling any better, love?"

"No." Sherlock rasped out in a barely there voice.

"Your fever's not gone down. I'm going to go get some medicine for you, alright? We're out…" John commented as he got up to get presentable to the public. Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes, drifting off lightly. He woke a few minutes later to a soft kiss at his temple. "I'll be back soon, 'Lock. I love you. Try to get some rest." Sherlock murmured the words back, closing his eyes as he listened to the floor creek as John slowly walked away. Something icy dropped into Sherlock's stomach.

"Jooohn!" He cried out as loud as one could with hardly any voice at all.

"Yes, Sherlock?" John wondered, pausing at the door.

"Be…be safe. I love you."

"I will, love you too, Sherlock." John smiled gently before leaving the room. The icy feeling past, and Sherlock shrugged it off. His fever had been doing weird things to him. He'd even hallucinated about a monkey wearing skates on the celling not fifteen hours earlier. He slowly closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift back off to sleep.

888

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes when he felt a cool hand press against his forehead. "Dear god, John was right when he said you were a mess. You never do anything half-way do you?" Lestrade asked in a gentle, concerned voice.

"Apparently not…" Sherlock muttered. "John home?" Sherlock wondered, not being able to tell how long he'd been asleep.

"No… I just came over…well, because I was worried about you and John. You because you're sick and John because I know he won't have a moment's rest when you're not feeling well." Lestrade commented, keeping his voice down, knowing Sherlock must have a headache.

"John's 'n idiot." Sherlock slurred.

"Only because of you." Lestrade chuckled. "Can I get you anything?"

"Water…?" Lestrade smiled, Sherlock was almost polite when he was sick. He walked out of the room and down into the kitchen, wincing when he saw what he was sure was a liver going absolutely rotten in the fridge, thankfully contained in something air-tight. Lestrade was sure John had to be crazy to put up with that. He walked back into the room with a glass of water, surprised when Sherlock actually let him help him take a drink. "Do you want me to stay until John comes home?" Lestrade asked, putting the glass of water next to Sherlock's bed.

"'f you want. John won' be gone long…justa trip to the Tesco…"

"Alright, get some rest."

"'m fine." Sherlock muttered sleepily.

"God he must drive poor John mad." Lestrade murmured under his breath as he left the room and sat down on the couch to wait for John, not wanting Sherlock to be alone when he had such a high fever. He flipped through a paper that sat on the table and red a few articles before looking up at the clock. It had been forty minutes and John still hadn't come home. Lestrade pulled his phone out of his pocket and called John's, but received nothing but the voicemail.

That wasn't like John, not in the slightest. Lestrade frowned and debated with himself for a moment. Sherlock was far too sick to be running around like Lestrade knew he would if John was missing, but Greg would never hear the end of it if he didn't tell Sherlock. And he would never be able to live with himself if John was hurt.

Lestrade got up and walked to Sherlock's room. Sherlock's eyes opened as the door creaked and he squinted up at Lestrade. "Where's John?"

"He hasn't come home. I'm a little worried—what are you doing? Sherlock?!" Lestrade protested as the very weak man pushed himself out of bed stumbling as he walked. Lestrade quickly moved and grabbed the lanky detective, keeping him from losing balance and falling to the ground. "Sherlock…?" The detective managed to grab his mobile and preceded to send a very quick text, twice.

He stumbled back across the room and leaned against the bed to support himself. His body ached everywhere, but it was all just transport, John's important. He closed his eyes and waited precisely four minutes before he looked at Lestrade. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Forty minutes."

"John could be there and back twice. Somthin's wrong." He quickly dialed a number in his phone as he began to walk towards the door.

"Sherlock, you can hardly walk." Lestrade muttered.

"Transport." Sherlock snapped back, though the bite was taken off by his illness. He barely managed to put his coat on when his eyes widened. "Mycroft, find John, he's in trouble."

"_Sherlock, you are hardly in the condition to say such things. John told me himself you've been…well, seeing things that don't exist. Please do calm down, just because you haven't seen him in a little—"_

"Trust 'e Mycroff. I know something's wrong!" Sherlock insisted, pulling his coat on.

"_Calm down, Sherlock—"_

"Don't tell me to calm down!" Sherlock swayed slightly on his feet. "I need you to find him, now."

"_Sherlock—"_

"Lestrade, talk to your boyfriend, I have no use for him. He refuses to listen."

"Boyfriend?" Lestrade asked, shocked.

"Double pneumonia and influenza A doesn't make me blind." Sherlock said walking towards the stairs.

"Where are you going?!" Lestrade shouted.

"To fin' John." Sherlock stated, moving as quickly as he could out of the house. He was nearly at a run as he maneuvered through the London streets even though he could hardly breathe as he lay still in bed. Running literally made it impossible to breathe, coupled with the cold air he knew he had a huge chance of passing out due to lack of oxygen, but he didn't care as long as he found John first.

He looked down every possible street and alley possible before he saw a small bag of grocery's sitting on the sidewalk just outside a very dark alley. He ran down the alley quickly until he saw a sight the made him freeze.

A pool of blood surrounded John, coming from a wound in his stomach. Sherlock knelt down next to him, gently touching his hands. "John? John?"

"Sher-lock?" John asked, his eyes slowly flickering open to look up at Sherlock. "You need to go inside…the cold air is bad for you." At that point Sherlock became aware that Lestrade had followed him and was phoning the police, hanging back from the two of them.

"Just transport. You're important." Sherlock insisted.

"I didn't think…anyone would come for me." John grunted and closed his eyes tightly in pain. "They took my phone…and I couldn't move." Sherlock cupped the doctor's face and gently kissed his forehead.

"I'll always come for you." Sherlock promised. He looked down and could tell that someone had stabbed his most dear doctor in the gut and left him to bleed to death after they had taken everything of value from him. "I've got you…"

"I don't want to be alone…last time…I was alone." John murmured weakly. Sherlock knew what he was referring to. The last time John had been dying he'd been completely alone, knowing no one was coming to save him, but then again, last time the doctor had had items to help him stitch himself back together again.

"You're going to be fine." Sherlock promised. "Lestrade's called an ambulance." John let out a quiet, little laugh before it turned into a moan of pain.

"Don't let go." John pleaded, grabbing onto Sherlock tightly, holding onto him as if his life depended on it.

"I won't, I promise." Sherlock swore, holding onto him just as tightly. He could hear the ambulance not far from where they were. "Hold on for me, okay." Sherlock insisted, knowing that by all scientifically accounts John shouldn't have been conscious after losing that much blood, most would be bordering dead.

"'Lock…I love you, so much."

"Don't, don't even start." Sherlock insisted, tears running down his face.

"But…you h-have to know." John struggled to get the words out, breathing harshly.

"Sh…it's alright. You can tell me when you're better. When we're back at the flat and Mrs. Hudson is bothering us about how loud we are at night and how she knew we'd be together right from the start. And we can talk while we lay together as we always do, just before we go to sleep." Silent tears began to stream down John's face and he closed his eyes slowly. "We can talk when we're old and can't chase after the criminals any more…"

"'Lock…I love you…" John repeated, looking back up at Sherlock seriously. "Please…just…"

"I love you John…so much."

"I'll never cease to wonder why… I'm so…plain."

"You're brilliant." Sherlock countered. "You know things that I could never know. You have such blue eyes and perfect hair. You're strong and brave, good and kind. You have more expressions than anyone I've ever met. You're a mystery and a shock at every turn. You're perfect, John. You're everything."

"You're everythin'…" John insisted, before his eyes rolled to the back and his body went limp in Sherlock's arms.

"John? No, don't do this to me, stay, stay with me…please. I need you." Sherlock stated in a panicked voice. Lestrade rushed over to them, hearing Sherlock's panic. He didn't say anything, but silently watched over both of them, glad to see that John's chest was still rising and falling, even though it was slow. The ambulance arrived and soon the paramedics were surrounding the pair of them, putting John onto a gurney and rushing him towards the ambulance.

"I'm sorry sir, but you can't be here." A paramedic said to Sherlock as he began to work quickly on John's wound, trying to keep him alive.

"He doesn't want me to leave him. I have to stay. He's my husband." Reluctantly the paramedics allowed him to ride in the hospital with John. Sherlock never let go of his hand the whole way as he stared down at his love. He wasn't paying attention to anything that was going on, until he heard the most dreadful sound. A heart monitor flat-lining. He watched in horror as the paramedics tried to bring John back to life.

Everything became a blur to Sherlock; there simply was too much going on in Sherlock's mind for him to continue functioning properly. His whole world began to revolve around one word. No.

_No, John's too young._

_No, we haven't had enough time yet._

_No, not John, anyone but John._

_No, there are so many things I never told him._

_No, no, no, no, oh god no._

Sherlock could see every moment he had ever had with the doctor. Their first meeting. The gunshot that killed the cabbie. The stress of watching red lasers dance across John's chest. The woman. The wretched time with the hound.

He recalled the first time John _truly _held him, the night he began to question himself he had had terrible nightmares. Sherlock remembered waking up as the bed shifted around him. He didn't say a single word or even open is eyes as he was engulfed in John's strong reassuring embrace. He heard John gently whisper something to him, but couldn't understand what it meant (a while later John admitted it was an Arabic phrase used to calm the restless). He could remember waking up to find John sleeping on the floor, but his scent was still in the blankets around him. It took Sherlock a month to talk to John about it…which led to one of Sherlock's fondest memories. Their very first kiss…tentative and gentle, but perfect and brilliant.

Everything had flown by from then. Slowly John had peeled back Sherlock's layers and Sherlock let him. He let John invade all of the private places in his mind, filling his mind palace with John, everywhere. He let John open his heart, a place he had permanently sealed away.

Then he had jumped… Moriarty knew about John, and there was no way Sherlock would have let Moriarty kill John, just to win a very silly game (a game that ceased when John was brought into it). He had abandoned John, and come home to a very broken man. He spent four days with a very bruised eye, and a year mending the man he had broken.

Sherlock remembered the time he fell into the Thames and John had fished him out, rushing him home to warm him up next to the fire, before placing a box on the Sherlock's knee. Sherlock remembered how fragile John had looked, how scared, yet hopeful. Sherlock remembered being shocked by the whole thing. He had no idea that John intended to propose. It was something he was never able to deduce.

He was shocked, but he said yes…and the look on John's face was one he'd always cherish. Well, he cherished every look on John's face. He had a secondary mind palace made just for the very purpose of memorizing every aspect about John. Perfect, sweet, loving, brave, strong… John.

A single sound interrupted Sherlock's memories. A sound that made his heart leap into his throat. The sound of a heart-rate monitor coming back to life. New tears ran down Sherlock's cheeks. He felt a flood of hope rush through him like a flood. The doctor was alive and he prayed to every god he knew of that John would stay that way.

888

Sherlock didn't let go of John, even as they ran through the hospital, he ran alongside, his hand in John's. "You can't come through." A woman stated grabbing Sherlock's arm as they came near two ominous doors.

"I have to—"

"You're not allowed through, sir."

"I promised. I promised I wouldn't let go!" Sherlock insisted as the woman tried to pry his hand from John's.

"You have to let go. We'll do everything we can. But you have to let go, please, he needs surgery, you have to let go." Sherlock barely managed to loosen his hand and watched with wide eyes as John was taken away from him, beyond the doors and out of sight. He stood there for a long time, frozen until he felt a pair of hands on his shoulders.

"Sherlock…come on…you need to sit down." Sherlock didn't respond, but his body gave into the familiar voice, allowing Greg Lestrade to lead him through the hospital into a waiting room where he sat Sherlock down. "Christ, Sherlock…" Lestrade muttered before retrieving two glasses of water and a cloth. He washed the blood off of Sherlock's bone-white face and handed him the other glass to drink from. Sherlock's clothes were stained with blood as were his hands. He was trembling from head to toe, but didn't seem to notice it. His skin was as colorless as snow. Tears streamed down his face with no signs of slowing.

"Sir…?" A voice asked. Lestrade turned to the nurse who stood there with paperwork in her hands. "Are you kin to the man who was brought in?"

"This is his husband." Lestrade pointed to the completely still detective.

"Could you have him fill this out?"

"I'll try…" Lestrade took the papers from her and slowly looked down at them before looking back at Sherlock. He set the papers down and stood in front of Sherlock. "Sherlock?" The detective didn't move an inch. "Sherlock…?"

"I promised…I wasn't supposed to let go." Sherlock rasped, his voice rough with his illness.

"It's alright, Sherlock… You had to."

"He wouldn't have let go of me… He never let go of me."

"Oh, Sherlock…"

"Sherlock?!" A new voice called out worriedly. It was a very strange voice indeed. No one had ever heard Mycroft's posh voice so worried before. The posh man ran through the hospital and knelt next to Sherlock, grabbing his hands, either not noticing or not caring that they were covered in blood. "Sherlock… Just close your eyes…try to count to ten for me, alright? Just breathe…"

"'Croft?"

"I'm here little brother…just trust me, close your eyes, just like you used to."

"It won't work." Sherlock shook his head. "Nothing will make it go away."

"I know…but you have to be strong, for John. Please, calm down, for John." Sherlock looked at Mycroft with wide eyes before he closed his eyes tightly. Lestrade and Mycroft stared at Sherlock for three minutes before they saw his eyes open again. "There you go…you have to stay strong."

"For John." Sherlock nodded slowly.

"Good…good…" Mycroft smiled gently, squeezing his brother's hands. He picked up the paperwork on the chair and quickly began to fill it out. "Is he alle—"

"No…nothing." Sherlock answered, knowing the question. They continued on like that for a few moments, Sherlock slightly more alert than he had been.

"Okay…" Mycroft stated. He read the last bit of the paperwork and answered it quickly. Knowing Sherlock's answer. If John flat-lined, Sherlock would want everything done to save John… He knew his brother needed John, just as he needed Lestrade. He forged Sherlock's signature perfectly before giving the paper back to the nurse at the desk and returning to Sherlock's side. "Sherlock…" He whispered, holding his brother's hands. "You can talk… I know it helps, don't tell me otherwise."

"We talk…about this." Sherlock whispered. "About the fact that we might…be hurt…be beyond saving. We told each other what we wanted if…if we died… I told John what I wanted…he always insisted—" Sherlock's voice broke. "John always insisted that he'd never be around to see me die…that he'd never make it. What if he was right? What if he was right? What do I—?" Sherlock couldn't keep talking, he fell forwards and into his brother's arms.

"It's alright 'Locky… John will be fine. He's a soldier. He's strong. He won't leave you." Mycroft promised, holding his brother tightly in his arms. "You know John better than anyone else…you know how strong he is…"

"He's already died once…I watched him die…what if he does it again…and I'm not there for him?" As if hearing his words, Sherlock looked up at the sound of an alarm and saw several nurses all running in John's direction. "No, no, no…" Sherlock whimpered grabbing his hair tightly in his own hands and rocking back and forth.

"Sh…I've got you. Be strong, for John. You can't lose hope in him."

"He's right." Lestrade agreed. "You have to believe, Sherlock."

"Will believing save him?"

"His belief in you saved you." Lestrade answered, not missing a beat. That was enough to put a very little bit of hope in Sherlock's heavy heart.

888

Four hours Sherlock sat in the chair, coughing and having trouble breathing, but not noticing it. It had been a full day since he'd had medicine that would properly open up his lungs so that he could breathe, but breathing was boring. John was important. The people in the waiting room stared at Sherlock with sad looks on their faces. Many of them knew who he was, and could guess whose blood was on his clothes and why he was so upset.

The doors swung open with a very ominous whoosh as a doctor stepped through them, covered in blood as he stood, still fully dressed for surgery at the doors. Sherlock looked up and he knew. He knew what was coming and new tears trickled down his cheeks.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" The doctor called out in a very tired voice. Sherlock remained still for a moment before he slowly stood up and walked towards the doctor slowly, without any of his usual grace or confidence. Every eye in the room followed him. Mycroft and Lestrade stood up, a silent show of support that Sherlock never saw. The doctor didn't say anything but led Sherlock through the double doors into the hospital.

Sherlock looked around at the bright white walls that were far too clean to be comforting. The whole place stank of cleanliness, but all he could smell was the dried on his clothes that belonged to John.

It was a very long walk, down a very short hallway. Sherlock felt as though his whole body was made of lead and that with every step he took someone placed a weight on his heavy shoulders. The doctor led Sherlock to a door and slowly pushed open a door. "I'll be back in a moment." Sherlock held his breath as he stepped into the room.

Laying, very still on the bed in front of him was John Hamish Watson-Holmes. He was very pale…too pale. Sherlock walked forward slowly, afraid of what he might see if he got too close. The closer he got the more he noticed how still he was. Sherlock reached out for his hand and gently took it in his.

Warm…

Sherlock was a remarkable detective and a genius man, but it took him ten seconds to register that a dead man wouldn't be warm. He laughed aloud in sheer relief and let tears of joy stream down his face. He bent down and pressed his lips to John's forehead tenderly. "I love you…"

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes?" Sherlock asked after a moment, not looking away from John for even a minute.

"Your husband is a very strong man. He coded four times on my operating table…and came back each time. I don't think I've ever had a patient do that before. The stab wound didn't hit anything vital, but he lost much of his blood… He's on some very heavy pain medications…and I can't predict when…or if…he'll wake up…but judging by his nature I'd say he will wake up. "

"Of course he will… He's my soldier."

"I'll leave you alone." The doctor nodded and left the room as Sherlock made the seat next to John's bed his new home. He held onto John, never letting him go, using his free hand to stroke John's hair gently, tenderly…he knew that when John stroked his hair it always soothed him, he hoped it had the same effect on John.

"Sherlock…?" Mycroft called quietly from the doorway.

"Yes…"

"Lestrade and I've brought some clothes for you…"

"You look like hell." Lestrade added.

"Can't leave his side. Clothes are unimportant." Lestrade shook his head and gently placed the clothes on the bed in front of Sherlock. Sherlock was very surprised when he saw that the clothes were all John's .

"Don't make him wake up to see you so gory, you'll give him a heart-attack. You know how he worried." Mycroft insisted, before closing the blinds to the room and stepping out with Lestrade, leaving his brother alone with John.

888

Seven days and eight nights Sherlock sat at John's bed for nearly every second, standing guard, keeping watch, holding onto his love. The doctors had managed to treat Sherlock's illness as he sat there, giving him proper medicine as he remained, ever faithfully at John's side. Never moving. He had talked to John a lot as he slept, just simple things about the people he deduced around the hospital and he even talked about his old cases and the names he was sure John would have come up for them had he been around all those years ago.

"…so I knew it was the brother who did it, because there was green paint residue left on the stones near the place of the murder, which naturally lead me to the ladder that the brother had recently painted green. You probably would have called it something silly on the blog if you'd been there. It was a very clean murder otherwise. I was very disappointed that the brother made such an elementary mistake. The paint John, he should have let it dry!"

"Brilliant…"

"Thank you, John." Sherlock answered with a smile before he froze. "_John?"_ John's eyes slowly opened and he blinked up at Sherlock a few times, adjusting to the lights around him.

"Do you always talk to me while I'm sleeping?"

"Whenever I feel you might want to hear a story." Sherlock answered.

"I like your stories." John smiled slightly.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." John promised. Sherlock leaned down and kissed John lovingly.

"Don't do that to me again."

"I won't." John squeezed his hand tightly. "Thank you for holding onto me."

"They made me let go. I didn't want to let go, John…they wouldn't let me."

"I know…but you never let go of me, did you?"

"Never." Sherlock swore. John smiled and sighed contentedly, closing his eyes and sliding closer to Sherlock. Sherlock rested his head against John's shoulder and held onto John, trying to comfort him by running his hands up and down his arms. "John…?"

"Yes, 'Lock?"

"I've done some thinking over the past few days…about what you said."

"What did I say?" John wondered.

"You always insisted that you'd never be there to see to my funeral arrangements…and I was hoping we could amend that."

"There is no way in hell I am living through another one of your funerals again, Sherlock. It nearly killed me last time, twice would destroy me."

"I know…but I'm not going to live to see yours either. You died five times, John. I almost never got you back. I can't lose you."

"Well, then we're in the midst of one huge dilemma." John chuckled slightly.

"No…I've figured it all out."

"What is that?"

"Let's die together…that way no one has to suffer." John smiled and kissed Sherlock's cheek.

"Agreed. You're brilliant, Sherlock."

"Really?"

"Always."

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**A sort-of tear-jerker, but everyone should know by now I'm a sucker for happy endings. Hope you enjoyed it! :)**


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